SAFELY BURIED Chapter 16: How Far They Can Go

The call came after lunch. The county’s crime-scene investigator said my car had been recovered and I could pick it up whenever I wanted to. “I hope you have a spare key,” he added. “There wasn’t any in the car.”

Edna Mae had followed instructions.

I found one of the reporters grabbing a smoke out back, and I got him to drive me to the jail. At the front counter I asked for Jim Simpson, the detective who had just called me. Slim Jim, as he was known, had been a CSI only a few months. Previously the county’s crime-scene investigations had been handled by the state police, but since the Campbellsville post had been closed for budgetary reasons, the sheriff’s department had gotten one of its own men trained. I found Jim and my car in the metal building where he worked behind the jail.

“She’s all yours,” he said.

I listened as he told me what I had already learned from the city cop. Then I asked if he had come up with anything after going over the car.

“No, nothing,” he said. “It was wiped clean—the steering wheel, gear shift, door handles, everything. I checked for fingerprints, swabbed for sweat that could yield some DNA . . . nothing. Whoever took your car did a mighty good job of covering their tracks.”

“It sounds like it,” I said.

“There was a little damage under the dash, where they got into the wiring to start the car, but not much. You won’t even notice unless you look for it.”

“Excellent.”

“Did you leave any valuables in the car?” he said.

“No.”

“Did you have portable GPS or any other electronics that weren’t built in?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you’re fortunate. It looks like nothing got ripped off.”

“There’s nothing worth stealing.”

Your registration is still in the glove compartment.”

“Is that significant?” I said.

“Sometimes the perpetrator takes it if he means to steal your identity. You didn’t have your social security number on anything in the glove box, did you? Any credit cards?”

“No and no.”

“Good. You’ll have to sign a form, but after that, you’re good to go.”

He kept talking as we walked back to the jail: “I’ll call the city police and tell them to notify the NCIC to delete your car from the national database. That’s the National Crime Information Center. It’s part of the FBI. It’s a computerized database for tracking crimes. When a vehicle is stolen, the agency that receives the report enters the information in the database. Then, when the vehicle is recovered, the agency that recovers it must notify the one that put it in the database to get it deleted.”

I was thinking we ought to do a feature on this guy, Meridian County’s only CSI. How does his experience compare with what we see on TV?

While I was signing the property-release form, Sheriff Eggemann heard us talking and came out of his office. “Are they taking care of you, Phil?” he said.

“Yes. It’s good to get my car back in one piece. Thanks, Sheriff.”

“Thank the city police. They found it.”

“I’ll do that.”

“By the way, I reckon you were right in thinking your hitchhiker stole it.”

“What makes you say that?”

He started back toward his office, and I tagged along.

“A couple of things,” he said. “First, there was no damage to your car, no parts missing. Second, where it was found—a block from the bus stop. I suspect she was hiding out somewhere around the Garths’ house, maybe in the barn, and when you left your car to go hill climbing, she saw her chance to get away. But with a broken leg, she didn’t want to drive all the way up to Indianapolis, so she came to town and caught the bus. She could have left the car at the bus stop, of course, but she may have been afraid it would be found too soon—like while she was still on the bus.” He paused, then added, “The only problem with this scenario is that the clerk at the bus stop didn’t remember selling a ticket to a lady with a broken leg. But he said if she wasn’t on crutches, he may not have noticed she was wearing a cast.”

“Pretty hard not to notice,” I said. “Do you have anything else on the Garth case?”

“The latest I heard is the victims’ bodies are to be cremated today,” he said. “Their families—their parents—want it that way. Lieutenant Bakery can give you the details.” He went into the office and sat down.

“Have you talked to the parents?” I said.

He propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and made an A-frame with his fingers, thumbs against chin. “Yes, by phone. I told them they could remove their children’s belongings from the house anytime now. I didn’t want to rush them, but we’re getting sightseers out there. I can’t afford to keep a man posted day and night to make sure nobody steals something. We’ve barricaded the driveway again, but people will go around it if there’s no guard.”

“Would you mind giving me their phone numbers?”

“That information should come from Lieutenant Bakery. I don’t want to step on his toes.” He glanced at his watch.

“One other thing, Sheriff—on a different subject— if you’ve got a minute.”

“Now what?”

“Do you know anything about a place called the Good Shepherd Home?”

He nodded. “That was the old foster home. It closed when the county built its own home for kids.”

“That’s right. I’m wondering if you ever heard any stories about children being abused there?”

“Abused? What kind of abuse?”

“Cruel and unusual punishment. . . . Sexual abuse. . . .”

“Heck no,” he said, “Who’ve you been talking to, Phil?”

“A former resident of the home.”

“Got a name?”

“To get the information, I had to promise not to reveal their identity.”

“Did he or she claim to have been abused?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“More than ten years ago.”

“Ten years. That’s a long time.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t give it much credence. I know this county pretty well. If there was any truth to it, I think I would have heard about it before now.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m skeptical too. But I was given some pretty convincing details. It did not sound like a fabrication.”

“Don’t you have enough on your plate, Phil?” His forehead creased as he leaned on the desk. “Maybe the person who talked to you has a grudge. Some people carry grudges a long time. I wouldn’t take it at face value.”

“I’m not taking it at face value, Carl. That’s why I ran it by you.”

He nodded. “If you want the other side of the story, why don’t you talk to Grace DeLong? She’s the lady who used to run the home.”

“She lives in Florida,” I said.

“No she doesn’t.”

“I thought she and her husband moved there after the Good Shepherd Home closed.”

He smiled with the satisfaction of someone who knows something you don’t. “That’s right, but after her husband passed away, she moved back here to be near her family.”

“That’s good to know,” I said. “I’ll pay her a visit.”

I hurried back to the garage for my car. It felt good to get behind the wheel of the Civic again. Then it was back to the Gleaner to find out where Grace DeLong lived. No problem—her name was right there in the phone book. I spent the next hour editing news. That took me to lunchtime. Then I went looking for Mrs. DeLong.

She lived on Periwinkle Avenue, a misnamed street on the south side of town. The avenue was only two blocks long, the beginning of a subdivision that never grew. Small ranch homes with brick wainscoting on the front and vinyl siding everywhere else lined both sides of the street. There were no trees, and most of the small front yards were overgrown. Toys and bicycles lay scattered about, and several for-sale signs sprouted in the grass. Mrs. DeLong’s home was one of the few that did not look shabby or unoccupied. I parked in front of her house. As I crossed the lawn, the smell of freshly cut grass hung in the air.

I knocked on the screen door. The inside door was open, and the voice of Elvis Presley singing gospel came from the back of the house. A fairly tall woman with snow-white hair appeared out of the shadows.

“Yes, what is it?” she said, at once impatient and guarded, as if I were about to try to persuade her to prepay her funeral or let me blacktop her driveway.

“Mrs. Grace DeLong?” I said.

“Yes.”

I introduced myself and said, “I’m working on a story about foster care in Meridian County. I believe you and your husband used to run the Good Shepherd Home.”

“We did.”

“I’d like to talk with you about the home, if you don’t mind.” When she did not immediately respond, I said, “If this isn’t a good time for you, I can come back some other day.”

“I guess it’s all right,” she said. She unlocked the screen door and held it open.

The living room was stuffed with large, dark wooden furniture. There was barely room to walk. “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to an uncomfortable-looking armchair between a curved-glass china cabinet and a long buffet on thin legs. She hurried away to turn off Elvis, returned immediately, and perched on a cameo-back loveseat directly in front of me.

When I opened my notepad and took a pencil out of my pocket, she said, “You’re using a pencil. I didn’t think anybody used pencils anymore.”

“I don’t like ballpoint,” I said. “Too many smears and splotches.”

She nodded in approval.

I began the interview with background questions about the Good Shepherd Home. When did they open the home? What led them to establish it? Was it affiliated with a church? What kind of work had they done before starting the home? How many children did they care for over the years? How many employees did they have? Did the county or state subsidize the home? Was it financially successful or a constant struggle? . . .

I had no shortage of questions like these, and after a few minutes, she relaxed and was more forthcoming. When I asked, “What made you and your husband decide to close the home?” she really opened up.

“The county put us out of business,” she said. “They built their own home. But they call it a group home, not a foster home. And you know why? Because the people who work there don’t act like foster parents. They don’t even pretend to try. They’re just government employees, that’s all they are. But what do I care? Hughie and I were fixing to get out anyway. The two of us were getting too old to deal with the kind of kids they were sending us.”

“What kind of kids were they?” I said.

“Kids growing up wild. Their parents never taught them anything. They were poor and uneducated—I’m talking about the parents now. Some of them were drunks or druggies. They didn’t care what their kids did. A lot of them were single mothers, living on welfare. The kids had no discipline, no guidance. It got to the point where Hughie and I couldn’t take it anymore. I always say those kids drove my husband to an early grave.”

“When did your husband die?”

“It’s going on three years now since I buried him.”

“Is he buried here in Campbellsville?”

“No. Spring Hill, Florida. It was too expensive to bring him back up here. Besides, he always wanted to live in Florida. He’s happy there.”

“How did you like living there?”

“I liked it fine. But I was all alone after he died.”

“Do you have any children?”

She shook her head. “No. I have two brothers. At least I have them. They both live in town here. It was my greatest disappointment that we weren’t blessed with children of our own. That was our cross to bear. It was another reason why we started the Good Shepherd Home. We wanted to have children around us. But the job got harder and harder as we got older.”

“I bet it did,” I said. “Do you feel you were able to help the children who came to the home? Did you manage to turn any of their lives around?”

“I’d like to think so. I hope so. God knows, we tried.”

“How did you deal with problem kids? Did you have special training? If a kid did something really bad, how did you handle it?”

“With plain old-fashioned common sense. No fancy theories. You don’t need two or three college degrees to know how to raise children. All it takes is knowing how to look after them, give them some love and attention.” She held her head high. “I just tried to teach them right from wrong, how to behave properly, how to show respect.” There was a proud, boastful twinkle in her eyes.

“Were you very strict with them?”

“Young people need rules to follow. They will test you to see just how far they can go. They want to know exactly how far. Yes. I was strict in insisting they follow the rules.”

“Would you say you were a stern disciplinarian?”

“As stern as I had to be. Some children needed more discipline than others. Dealing with children is more of an art than a science. But they all had to follow the same basic rules. It would not have been fair any other way.”

“When children broke the rules, how were they punished?”

“I always felt that the punishment should fit the offense. For a little child, often the best punishment is simply being made to sit for half an hour or an hour. I have never been in favor of corporal punishment, but sometimes it is appropriate, I believe. Hugh and I did use a paddle occasionally, when a child stepped way over the line.”

“Mrs. DeLong,” I said, “I have to tell you that I’ve spoken to some people who were put in the Good Shepherd Home when they were little. From what they’ve told me, it sounds as if punishment was sometimes very harsh.”

Her mouth fell open. “That’s simply not true. What did they tell you?”

“One of them said children were locked in the cellar overnight for refusing to do chores around the house.”

“Who in the world told you that?”

“It’s not true then?”

“Certainly not.”

“You mentioned that you sometimes paddled children. In one case, I was told, the paddling went on so long that it made the kid’s backside burn. Could that be true?”

She gaped at me. “If a child does something so bad that paddling becomes necessary, don’t you think the paddling should hurt a little bit?”

“So you don’t feel the paddling was ever excessive?”

Her chest heaved. “Of course not! Who’s been telling you these things? Do you think we would have been allowed to operate the home for twenty years if we had treated children like that? My Lord!”

“I’m sorry,” I said, playing the hypocrite. “I just want to give you the opportunity to respond to what I’ve been told.”

With a cold, hard stare she said, “I hope you’re not planning to put this in the paper. There’s such a thing as libel, you know.”

“I will not libel you, Mrs. DeLong.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“I have one more question. I’ve been told that a policeman would sometimes come and take a child out of the home to some other house, where a man would play games with the child for a while and then take the kid to bed with him. How do you respond to that?”

Her head wagged in super slow motion as her face froze in disbelief. “Is this a joke? What are you trying to do? You’re making me out to be a witch. I never heard of such things.” She broke into a crazy laugh. “Who have you been talking to? You look old enough to know you can’t believe everything you hear. Some of the children we had in the home were not exactly saints. We had all kinds. Some of them were pretty big liars.”

“Why would someone make up lies like these, Mrs. DeLong?”

“How should I know? You tell me. Some kids just make things up. I remember one girl telling the other children that her mother was Marilyn Monroe. She said Marilyn put her in the home because she was too busy making movies to raise a kid. It didn’t matter that Marilyn Monroe had committed suicide before that girl was even born.” This time she laughed triumphantly. “I hope you don’t make the mistake of printing those lies in the paper. My husband and I put the best years of our lives into that home. I will not tolerate it if you cause our good reputation to go up in smoke.”

“I would never print anything I couldn’t prove,” I said.

One eye nearly closed as she stared at me. “That’s very wise of you. And if you don’t believe what I’ve said, you can ask someone else. Ask Judge Brandon. He’s the most respected man in the county. Go talk to him.”